CHAPTER XIII.FOILED.
Afortunate chance seemed about to do for Preston, that which he had been deliberating about, and hesitating whether or no he should have it done. John Vale, having crossed the line of the enemy in disguise, was, according to the laws of war, a spy; and spies, when captured, are always hung. So reasoned Captain Reginald, and his satisfaction was intense. The family which stood between him and a competency would now disappear, sure enough.
The night had worn far on when Reginald, tossing aside the papers on which he had been engaged, for the moment resigned himself to his thoughts. “Let me see,” he discoursed to himself; “I must get a glimpse of my little beauty to-night, and see whether or no she will be reasonable. I must keep my temper, though, for it was a shame the way I went off into a passion the last time I saw her. One such exhibition will do more damage than a week’s bowing and kisses, and soft whispers, can well repair. I wish my arm was full strong again, for I am more than half afraid to enter single armed into a contest with a mad woman, armed with a heavy water-pitcher! Heavens! What a picture she made! I think I see her now, with her eyes flashing, and her arm thrown back, and I—ha! ha!—well! I adopted as a motto the old proverb that ‘discretion is the better part of valor,’ and let her alone. Here goes, then, for another visit to my rebel beauty. The hour is so late I wonder if she will be awaiting my coming?” Throwing on his cloak, he issued from his door and trod along the streets which led to Fagan’s cottage.
The night could scarce have been better suited to Hunt and his friends. Without raining, the heavy clouds lay in dense banks over the heavens, and it was but occasionally that a star could be seen to twinkle. The heavens were indeed propitious;and the lonely, unfrequented streets were unusually dreary and deserted.
As, however, Preston turned a corner, he thought he heard footsteps coming up the street which he had just passed. Peering anxiously behind he could just make out the figures of two men. They seemed to be conversing in whispers, for they leaned closely together. Preston could not hear what they said, and was glad to see them keep on their way up the street without interfering with him.
Waiting until the noise of their footsteps had fully died away, Reginald again pursued his lonely journey, nor stopped until he reached its end. Entering the cottage by means of a key which he carried with him, he closed the door carefully and relocked it; then mounted the stairs.
Soon the sounds of another’s footsteps were heard approaching the house and Nat Ernshaw, guided by a son of Simon Hunt’s, appeared by the door. Dismissing the boy, Nat looked around him as well as he could by the extremely faint light. “The window by the sycamore-tree which stands by the porch in front of the house. Then, if my eyes are not deceived, this must be it, and now for Kate.” So saying, Nat began the ascent of the tree.
All this Preston did not see, or even think of, for he had made his way to the room in which was confined her whom he sought. A light was burning in the room—it never was suffered to go out; and Kate had been sleeping, but on hearing the noise made by the bolt, she started from the bed, all dressed as she was, and cast a frightened glance toward the door. A sudden arousing from sleep makes cowards even of brave men. What wonder, then, that Kate, a poor weak, defenseless girl, was startled from her presence of mind? Standing erect, without a purpose, speechless and pale, she awaited the pleasure of him who, at this unseemly hour, broke in upon her slumbers.
“I have come once more on a friendly visit, my own Kate, and though, at an unusual hour, yet as a friend. I know you will receive me kindly even though I intrench upon your time for slumber. Have you entirely recovered from the sudden fit of illness which came upon you when I was last here?”
The cloven hoofwillshow itself, be it ever so nicely concealed; and the purpose of Reginald Preston could not be concealed even by his bland tones. Preston continued:
“To tell the truth to you, however mortifying it may be to me, I am ashamed of myself, and acknowledge that the way in which I acted was reprehensible in the extreme. No man ever gained any thing by getting into a passion, especially with a woman. Having made this apology, I can return to the calm and dispassionate discussion of the subject before us.”
The captain spoke in an easy, self-assured manner. Kate was herself again, and she answered in a tone calm but clear and stern: “Mr. Preston, there is nothing to be discussed between us. You have done that which removes you forever beyond the pale of common honesty, a deed most foul; I am to some extent, in your power. You may keep me imprisoned here, but more than that you can never,darenever, attempt. I have friends who will find me though they have not the slightest clue to guide their search; and they will, as sure as there is a Heaven above us, avenge to the last, any wrong done to me while I am in your power.”
“That you have friends, for the sake of argument, we’ll admit; but, if you include your brother in the number, I am afraid you will never seehimagain. He was captured in Charleston last night, is at present in prison, and will be hung to-morrow as a spy.”
“Then may God preserve him and me!” answered Catherine, and she sank fainting on the bed beside her. Captain Preston, springing to raise her, was arrested by a voice exclaiming: “And He will!”
Turning, he saw standing in the door, which, through inadvertence, he had neglected to lock, the stalwart frame of Nathaniel Ernshaw. “Who are you, who dares to intrude here?” was on his lips, but not uttered; for, as he placed his hand to his sword-hilt, Ernshaw sprang forward and planted his fist straight between the eyes of Reginald. The captain fell senseless to the floor. Ernshaw gently raised the senseless form of Kate, and called her name. His voice recalled her wandering senses. Opening her eyes, she murmured, “Thank God! I am saved! Saved! make haste away!”
Passing quickly out, and crossing a small hall, Nat and hisfair charge entered another room—the one whose window looked out upon the little porch and the sycamore-tree. The shutters of this room were the only ones about the house which were to be opened. The old negress, who brought to Catherine her meals, occupied this apartment, and obstinately persisted in retaining the privilege of sunshine and fresh air. Through this window, Nat had entered, and finding that the old woman was awake and about making an outcry, he had bound and gagged her.
Letting Kate down from the window by means of a quilt which he had snatched from the bed, Ernshaw swung himself down by the branches of the tree. Standing once more on the solid ground he gave a low whistle, which was answered by another from the garden, and young Hunt appeared, leading a horse; a moment more found the young man in the saddle, with Kate in front of him. “Is it time?” he inquired of the boy. “Almost,” was the answer.
“Then here goes for liberty!” half shouted Ernshaw, as he touched the horse lightly with a spur. In a moment he was lost in the blackness of the night.
Acting in obedience to the injunction of the blacksmith, John did not attempt to loosen his irons until the jailer had made his final round. Then, though working without a light, half an hour enabled him, with the aid of the sharp-biting file, to throw off the fetters. With a sigh of relief he laid them quietly upon the floor, and stretched his limbs well wearied with the load which they had endured. He next examined the bars that guarded the window by which escape was to be made. The aperture was full large enough to admit of the egress of a man twice as large as Vale were the iron bars once removed; and of these bars there were three.
The saw which John had in his possession, was made from a portion of a watch-spring, and a trial of it convinced him that with a little time he could easily cut through the bars even without the promised assistance of Hunt. The bars were so placed, that if but two of them could be removed, the other would hardly give much trouble; and to the task of removing these two did Vale most assiduously bend himself. By an hour after midnight one of the bars was taken out. By the hour of three, the second bar was morethan half sawn in two. As the hours wore on, Vale would occasionally pause in his work and listen for some signal from his expected friend. The faint, bell-like notes of a distant clock chiming the expected hour, finally reached him, sounding solemn and still through the noiseless night-air. The steady movement of the saw ceased for a season, but no sound was heard, and again the nervous arm of the young man continued its task. A faint sound as of something scratching the wall was the signal for work to be discontinued; then, the cheery voice of Simon whispered: “Are you there, John?”
“All right!” answered Vale as he stretched his hand out through the opening to be grasped by the hardy blacksmith.
“You have done better than I thought you would, and if they give us half an hour, or even a quarter, it will go hard but that you once more regain your liberty.”
The quarter of an hour was destined to be granted, and, though the work was done noiselessly enough, yet, at the expiration of that time, under the vigorous wrist of the blacksmith the bar was severed.
“Wait a moment,” said Simon, “the ladder does not seem to be over-strong and may not bear two of us.”
Hunt descended to the ground, and, in a moment more Vale stood beside him. The spot where the two stood was in a garden, upon which one side of the prison looked, and which belonged to one of the most influential men in the city. Making their way carefully along, passing through another garden, they reached an alley. Hunt gave a low whistle, received an answer, and, vaulting over the fence, two horses were found there in waiting, held by a man—his features could not be made out in the darkness.
Vale turned to his companion, in doubt: “Mr. Hunt,” said he, “you seem to be well provided. Whose horses are these? Hardly yours, and yet they could hardly have come from the British.”
“They are yours as much as mine, though they did not come from the British. They were furnished me by an influential and rich man who has found it necessary to conceal his patriotic proclivities. But into the saddle with you! If Nat Ernshaw has been successful, there is one waiting for you whom you much long to see.”
“My sister?” said John excitedly, as he vaulted into his saddle.
“Yes, your sister; but follow me. I attend you in the ride to-night; and henceforth until this war is ended, and the colonies have gained their independence, I shall be found fighting for my country.”
Following close behind, Vale stopped when his guide stopped, and the two remained perfectly silent for a moment. The sound of a horse’s steps were distinctly heard. Nearer and nearer they came, then a whistle, to which Hunt replied, and the approaching horseman was soon by the side of the two.
“Thank Heaven it has turned out so well;” said Ernshaw, and a well-known voice sounded in the ears of Vale, “O John! are you there?”
“Kate!” exclaimed John. “Kate, and safe!”
“Yes! safe and saved!”
Ernshaw had ridden close up to John, and the fair young girl stretched out her hand to her brother. Lifting her from her place, he seated her in front of his saddle, and printed a kiss with all a brother’s affection upon her cheek. “This street is no place for explanations,” said Hunt. “We must be far away before morning comes. We have many miles to ride before we can say we are in safety.”
“On then!” said John. “Here is a light heart fit for the dark night! Hurrah!” burst from his lips.
“Are you crazy, man!” said Hunt, “to thus run the risk of arousing the sentinels on the lines? We are not yet beyond their hearing; and a word might be fatal to us all.”
“That’s true,” answered Ernshaw; “but, I own I would like to give one goodwhoopas a parting salutation.”
“Now for it, boys!” exclaimed Hunt as he led the way in the early morning dimness, for the darkness was lifting its trailing robes, and the morning was streaking the east with its golden arrows.
Away, past houses, sentinels, barriers following the lead of Simon Hunt, sped the fugitives; through the early hour that preceded the morning, through the misty light of day-breaking, into the full glories of the morning; and hard behind rode Reginald Preston with his troop of dragoons. Certainly nomore then ten minutes’ start had the patriots—and fairly flying in the pursuit came the British captain, his heart wild with rage and a burning desire to wreak its revenge. That blow burned upon his forehead like fire; his prisoned bird, caught with so much care and money, again was free—the thought of these awoke all the mad energy of his wicked nature. He would have the fugitives, or die!
Hastening on, Ernshaw wished only to meet with his men. Whether or no there was pursuit, he could not, as yet, tell; but this he felt assured of: once with his company, he would not be afraid to turn and face any force that would be sent for his capture, or rather for the recapture of John Vale. With the first flush of early light, came to the ears of the flying the sounds of pursuit. The company of Reginald rode hard, and a company of fifty horsemen, going at full speed, made no slight noise.
“They come!” cried Ernshaw, as he heard the sounds.
Kate said nothing, but clung tighter to her brother.
“Let them come,” responded Hunt. “Another mile will see us in safety, unless some unforeseen accident may chance to occur. Five minutes’ riding should bring us to the brigade, and with the start which we have, they can not come up with us in that time.”
“On! on!” exclaimed Vale; and in silence the flight was continued.
The sounds behind became more distinct, as more brightly the morning broke above them. On the brow of a hill, Hunt turned partly round and glanced behind. Half a mile away he could distinguish the forms of horsemen riding recklessly on, gaining at almost every stride. Ten minutes more, at the pace they were going, would bring them within pistol-shot distance. Would that ten minutes bring them to Ernshaw’s brigade?
Down the hill Simon spurred his horse, the others keeping close company; but the animal which John Vale bestrode was beginning to lag, for it carried double weight.
“Thank Heaven! we are safe!” exclaimed Hunt; and “Safe!” ejaculated Ernshaw, as, at the distance of but a few hundred yards, a dozen of the patriot troopers could be seen standing by the sides of their saddled steeds. A wild hurrahburst from these men as they saw their captain and his friend appear, all unharmed. At the cheer, from the wood which stood by the road-side, or rather through which the road passed, a score or more of men emerged and joined their shouts with those of their comrades. A moment more and the four were in the midst of the patriot brigade.
Forty hands were stretched out toward Nathaniel and Vale, and forty lips clamored forth congratulations.
“I accept your congratulations,” said Nat, “but this is no time for words. Hard behind me rides a large force of British dragoons. They may outnumber us by ten or a dozen men, but we can easily crush them at a blow. What say ye, men? Shall we fight or retreat?”
A scornful laugh ran around the circle. “Fight! fight! Down with the Britishers—the miscreants—dogs!”
“Then back into the woods with you, and we will attack them as they come up.” In a moment, from the road, not an American was in sight. “I want some one,” continued Ernshaw, when they were fairly under cover, “for a duty that will be both pleasant and unpleasant; some one who is well enough acquainted with the country to guide Miss Vale to a place of safety, in case any thing disastrous should happen to us. Of course he can not mix in with the fight.”
“The person for that is the boy that came to us yesterday mornin’. I see now that he is with you. After his fifty miles of ridin’, I guess he wouldn’t be of much use in a scrimmage, but he’ll do as well as a man fur the lady,” said one of the men.
“You are right,” replied Nat. “Simon is worthy of the trust.” So, calling forward the boy, he gave him his instructions.
Hurrying onward with unabating speed, Captain Preston and his company drew nigh to the spot where the brigade stood under close cover, all ready for the fray.
“Now, boys, at them!” rang in the ears of the startled British.
But their quick reply was a discharge of pistols, and their balls rattled like hail among the tree-limbs overhead. Instantly from among the trees flashed Nat Ernshaw’s troopers—each man grasping in his strong hand his trusty sword.
Themeleewhich followed can scarcely be described. There is an appalling sublimity in a hand-to-hand conflict, when life or death is in the issue. Whether the conflict be on a larger or smaller scale, the same fierce elements are excited—the same personal results follow. As fierce the individual strife between a hundred as between a thousand times one hundred.
Blended together, horse to horse, arm to arm, sword to sword, each man shouting his war-cry—each man hewing fiercely, the hundred struggled, and panted, and strove for victory, without one thought of death.
“Down with the rebel hounds!” shouted Preston.
“Show the minions no quarter!” answered Nat, in a voice like thunder.
In the midst of the British, fighting with the fierceness to which a despairing, cowardly heart can sometimes be goaded, was Turner.
Twice did John Vale urge his horse in the direction of the tory, and twice was he prevented from reaching him. Though blows fell fast around, yet the two seemed to bear a charmed life, and the strife continued, bearing them still unhurt. Again did Vale press forward. Suddenly he felt a strange sensation creep over him; his sight became dimmed, his head appeared to be whirling round and round, and he fell from his horse.
But if John Vale was down, a score and a half of stout, unflinching, maddened patriots were not. One Briton after another fell, until scarce fifteen left, they broke and fled.
Mounted on horseback, with young Hunt on foot beside her, Catherine hastened on. Passing through the woods for some distance, the road, turning, crossed their way, and the two kept on in the beaten path. Kate’s heart was beating wildly enough with suspense. The first volley of pistol-shots was heard quite plainly by her; after that the sounds of battle came but indistinctly—soon nothing was to be heard.
Almost unconsciously Kate had reined in her horse, and sat as though waiting to hear news of the fight. How long she thus remained, she could hardly have told; it must have been for some minutes, for the boy seemed to think the delay too long.
“Come, miss,” said he, “if I am to take charge of you, I would rather have you further off from the spot we have justleft. There’s no telling whatmayhappen, and, although I want to see our side whip, you can’t have every thing as you want it. Best to be moving along, I guess.”
The advice was good, but it came rather late. Around the bend of the road, from underneath the overhanging boughs, came a flying horseman. Hatless and bleeding, his locks disheveled and his face all distorted with anger and fear, one could scarce recognize the once gallant-looking Captain Preston. Catherine Vale did, and right good reason had she to do so. With a cry of terror she drew up her reins and struck the horse with her foot to urge him into a run.
Onward thundered the trooper; and behind him, but a few rods, still grasping a sword, came Timothy Turner.
The eye of Reginald fell upon Kate.
“Ha! ha!” he shouted; “found once more!”
Driving his spurs deep into his horse, he increased his speed. The young boy, Simon, endeavored to sweep Reginald from his saddle by a blow from his stick; but, ere it descended, the captain flung at him a discharged pistol. The aim was true: it struck the lad upon the breast and felled him to the ground. Catherine’s steed, though a good one, was no match for the high-bred animal which the captain bestrode; and at every stride the distance between them was lessened. Far behind, like an avenging fury, came Nat Ernshaw, but too far distant to afford assistance now.
With a great bound, the horse of the captain was placed side by side with that of the flying girl. He caught her bridle in his grasp.
“Mine! mine once more!” he shouted. “Found again and forever!”
Loud came the shouts of the pursuers—Nat Ernshaw and a dozen men drew near.
One glance behind, then Preston checked his speed. “If not for me in life, then be it in death!”
Drawing his sword, all smeared with blood, Reginald poised the weapon, for a moment, then seizing the girl by the throat, he raised the messenger of death, shouting, “Good-by, Kate!CousinKate!”
With closed eyes and outstretched hands, Catherine awaited the blow. She heard a crashing sound; the grasp on herthroat was loosened; then came the noise of a heavy fall. Bewildered she beheld Capt. Preston lying on the road, his head cleft down to the very jaw, while by her side, with a saber dripping with the still liquid life’s blood, stood the tory, Timothy Turner. Blood was slowly trickling from a bullet-wound in his breast, and his face was ghastly pale; but, from underneath his lowering brows, his dark eye gleamed with a bright light.
“I am dying,” he muttered, as he rolled from his horse, staggering to the green bank which margined the road.
With a brain all awhirl with wonder and doubt, Kate surveyed the tory. Involuntarily she turned her panting, trembling horse to one side, and drew near to the man as he lay there; the life-blood gurgling forth at every quick pant, the pallid countenance upturned to her with a wistful look. She saw the lips move, and bent down in her saddle.
“Will you listen to a dying man?” he faintly asked.
“Whatever you have to say, tell it quickly,” she answered.
“Do not let your friends murder me. I shall die soon. Come nearer.”
Catherine felt herself greatly moved. “Fear not,” she said, and lightly sprang from her saddle. As she touched the ground, Nat Ernshaw and his men thundered up. “Harm him not!” almost commanded Catherine. “He has saved my life and is dying. Touch him not, I say!” The men were eager to saber him, it was plain.
“We will not,” replied Nat; and Kate bent over the dying man.
“I’m going,” said Turner, speaking hoarsely and quickly. “It’s hard, but it must be. It isn’t much for you to do, but I want you to say you forgive me.”
“For what?”
“It was me that carried you off.” Turner saw the fire flash in those eyes, and he continued, “I’ve been wicked—I loved money—but I loved you better and stronger than any thing else. It’s the only good in me, but that was made bad enough when your brother turned me out of the house. I hated him and Ernshaw. But I didn’t mean to let Preston harm you. I would have stolen you from him again. I was near when he was. If I could have made up my mind, Icould have given the alarm when you first escaped. I loved you and myself, and hated every one else. Say you forgive me. I have done great wrong, but I’m sorry.Willyou forgive?”
Touched more by his tone, so piteously pleading, than by his words, Catherine answered: “I do.”
“Let me take your hand,” he murmured.
She gave it to him without hesitation. Turner grasped it, pressed it to his lips, and died with the slight effort.